


Guide

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 20:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Boromir is beckoned.





	Guide

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The woods are deep and dark, growing thicker with every step he takes, the weeds growing up to twist around his feet. Boromir steps free of them and moves ever onwards, his hand always at his sword. He’s seen no orcs yet, but if he does, he will be ready, and he’ll slaughter them all before the others even have a chance to wake. Boromir alone guards their sleep, because he’s the strongest of them, even if they don’t realize it. He’s come to respect each of his companions, right down to the halflings, even and especially Aragorn. But Aragorn doesn’t know the realities of war the way that Boromir does. He’s seen more blood than they can ever dream of. 

He catches a glimmer of fire-red through the trees, and his breath quickens. He surges forward, rushing between the thick foliage that rises up to meet him. Golden hair disappears behind a rotting trunk, followed by a glimmer of black armour to the left—Boromir weaves through the maze, one hand reaching out. He catches a glimpse of pale skin and pointed ears—an elf must have wandered too far down from Lothlórien. They must know that these lands aren’t safe. Boromir calls out to them.

Nothing leaves his throat. Something brushes across his arm, and Boromir turns, only to be slammed back against a tree.

The elf stands right before him. It’s a tall, slender figure, framed with yellow hair that flickers orange in the light, crimson in certain places, ever changing, like slick lava dripping down his shoulders. His eyes are wide and captivating, something difficult to look away from. There’s a coldness in them, but a beauty in his face far beyond what Boromir has ever seen. He finds himself breathless, more from the company than the blow. 

For a long moment, the elf simply smiles at him, something coy and sensual, those eyes piercing right into the very core of who Boromir is. Then the elf steps away, giving Boromir room to breathe. 

Boromir can only ask, “Who are you?”

The elf tilts his head, eyes narrowing and grin growing before he coos, “You may call me _Mairon_. And I know you, Boromir... the handsome prince of Gondor...” He says it with an appreciative lilt to his seductive voice then sends a shiver right down Boromir’s spine. Mairon asks hopefully, “Will you return home soon?”

Normally, Boromir would hold his tongue. He knows better than to speak his plan to strangers, but this creature doesn’t feel like a stranger, rather an old fantasy: one that’s slipped into his dreams on many lonely nights. In that moment, Lying is beyond Boromir’s ability. He answers, “Yes... why do you ask?”

Mairon laughs. It’s a pretty sound, ringing through the wood crystal-clear, but no orcs come running at it—there’s no other sound, not even the low buzz of insects. Mairon’s hand lifts to Boromir’s chest, long, delicate fingers and heated gaze tracing across his tunic. Mairon murmurs, “You carry something powerful with you, my young lord... I can sense it... and you must take that power to Gondor.”

His eyes dart up so suddenly that Boromir physically stiffens. Mairon takes one slow step forward, slotting himself between Boromir’s feet, again so close that Boromir can taste the ash that billows from him. Mairon tilts forward and purrs across Boromir’s parted lips: “I _like_ powerful men.” 

He couldn’t possibly know. _No one_ can know. But Boromir feels as though Mairon knows every little last thing about him, far beyond the ring, down to his greatest and darkest desires, things he’s never spoken aloud to a single soul. Mairon eyes his lips for a long time, and Boromir really thinks that his is going to progress into something very different.

Mairon whispers, “Remember this when you wake, son of Gondor. Remember what pleasures await you if you deliver such glory south.”

Boromir swallows. He doesn’t understand. He asks, dazed, “Am I dreaming?”

Mairon hums, “In a way.” Then he closes what little distance is left between, and Boromir tastes the sweetness of his lips. 

Boromir wakes with a start, ensconced in a bed of leaves by their blown-out fire. His companions sleep around him, Legolas standing at the watch.

Boromir’s heart is pounding. A voice sings in his ear: _the ring._


End file.
